


Meme Ficlet: Fashionista

by greywash



Series: Meme Ficlets (Spring 2012... and onward) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:55:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Meme ficlet, archived off Tumblr; unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked.</em>
</p><p><strong>Anonymous requested</strong>: What is the dirtiest sexual thing that four has ever done to fifteen?</p><p>
  <strong>4. Irene<br/>15. Moran</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meme Ficlet: Fashionista

**Author's Note:**

> On all of these where someone asked for 15, I have been reserving the right to use any version of Moran, either from my own stuff, like "The Good Morrow", or a more ACD!canon inspired version, or... other.
> 
> Upon reflection I think it is probably pretty obvious which option I would go with for this particular prompt.

Irene gets bored easily. It's natural, she supposes; make anything your profession and it eventually will lose some of its luster, but she does still remember being seventeen, twenty, and feeling heat wind up tight and hot inside her at the thought of gagging Laurie's pretty mouth, at the way Elena had looked with rope cutting into her wrists. She misses that, a bit; the thrill of something just a little bit forbidden, something for her and her lover, instead of something she did for other purposes. She doesn't regret it. Regret is fruitless. But it makes her nostalgic, sometimes, to think of how she used to be able to shock herself with such formulaic fantasies.

Tina, for her part, doesn't appear to have fantasies at all, at least not ones that don't involve the Chloé fall collection. Irene isn't sure if those count. Irene appreciates luxury, but she appreciates luxury because it's a tool, another way to make herself seem harmless and expensive; buyable. Tina, on the other hand, has spent the past week having a really tawdry love affair with a silvery silk Bottega Veneta dress that she bought, incongruously, on sale.

"It's not like you can't afford it," Irene tells her, breathless, three fingers twisting inside Tina's cunt while Tina flushes pink and makes desperate noises and rubs her face into the rucked up fabric of her dress.

"It's the—the principle of it," Tina manages, gasping, and pushes her hips up, desperate and shameless, which Irene rather appreciates. Irene is wet past her wrist, and Tina is salty when Irene bends to steal a taste, slick and shivery on Irene's tongue, sticky on her cheeks. The dress is, Irene must admit, very tactilely pleasing indeed; Tina likes to be a little dirty when she puts it on, and she never wears it with knickers or a bra, just slips it on over her pink-flushed-all-over naked body after Irene eats her out at the edge of the Tina's massive fluffy-white bed instead of breakfast, and then Tina toes on her shoes and wriggles into her coat and gathers up all that dark sweat-frizzed earthy-smelling hair and goes in to bend the internet to the will of her odious little toad of a boss while Irene ties up the better part of the government for eight to ten hours.

It's a living.

Irene has never understood Tina's fascination with fabric, at least not fabric that was strictly off-limits for tying people up, but she knows that Tina wears that five hundred pound dress that she bought on sale with no knickers and no bra and pretends to take orders from Moriarty and squirms under the silk, giving herself just enough liquid-soft friction to keep herself slick and wanting, leaving a damp spot on her skirt that Irene can smell and taste later, even if the fabric is too dark for it to show. When Irene meets her at the end of the day Tina's already up at the very very edge, ready to come once on Irene's fingers, once on her face, again on the spray from the shower while she laughs, open and delighted, and brings Irene off with her hands and her hands and her hands, because Tina hates to be impersonal. Irene does appreciate that. Tina is never impersonal, except when it comes to her wretched dresses, which sometimes, Irene thinks, Tina likes better than her.

Irene doesn't understand any of it—at least, not until she comes home to Tina's flat wearing nothing but Mr. Holmes's very elegant and expensive coat and a lingering whiff of his aftershave, and Tina's eyes go dark and hooded, and she slips her body up against Irene's body and whispers, "You look lovely in that."

"Really," Irene tells her. "You're an absolute whore for fashion."

"Hm." Tina sounds thoughtful, and her hands slip under the fabric folded over Irene's body, her fingertips cool against Irene's sides.

"Or do you just like men's cologne," Irene murmurs, and then Tina leans in and presses her warm lips to Irene's throat, her cool hand slipping between Irene's rapidly overheating thighs, and then Tina's mouth slides up to Irene's earlobe and bites.

"I like you," Tina tells her, "in most things," very softly, scraping the barest hint of fingernail over Irene's clit. Irene can't stop the noise that draws out of her; Tina will trim her nails in the morning, Irene knows, but that still gives them the whole of tonight. Tina slips her damp fingertip up Irene's belly and whispers, "Can I? Like this? You're already wet, but I want to get you _sodden_."

"Do your best," Irene tells her, and Tina laughs and pushes her back onto the sofa, the coat falling open around Irene's sides. Tina wriggles down between Irene's thighs and hefts her bottom up, thighs over Tina's shoulders and shoes pointing at the ceiling, which even Irene can appreciate on a purely aesthetic level. Tina nuzzles at Irene's belly, her fingers already petting at her, holding her open and apart, so that by the time Tina shifts down to bury her face against Irene's cunt, Irene's body already feels stretched tight and wanting, very nearly desperate for it, her blood pulsing hard and hot at the edges of her skin. The coat is open all around her, but still far too hot, and she squirms against its satiny lining as Tina licks at her clit and works two fingers inside her cunt and another just against her arsehole, just a tease, not quite a promise. Beneath her Irene trembles and gasps and grinds down for more, which Tina won't give her, so she calls Tina any number of really very impolite names while Tina just laughs into her body and keeps going and going and going, until Irene grinds her teeth together and pants through her nose and comes in great whole-body shivers, again and again and again.

She's so wet, good Lord. She can feel herself slick all over her arse and her thighs, practically down to her knees, and Mr. Holmes's coat is certainly never going to be the same.

"Lovely," Tina murmurs, rubbing her sticky hands up Irene's belly and sides. She wipes them on the lining, rubs her face dry on the lapel. "Lovely," she repeats, and Irene is almost not sure that Tina's talking to her anymore.

"I really ought to give it back, you know," Irene tells her, and Tina hums and rubs her cheek over the open edge of the coat, up the inside of Irene's arm, and down, rubbing her skin over Irene's tight-drawn-up nipples, which are still achy and oversensitive. 

"You can give it back if you really want to," Tina tells her, and then buries her face in Irene's stomach, lazily licks inside her navel. Irene feels that draw up tight again inside her, as Tina slides back down, telling her, "Just—not just yet."

Irene shivers up and spreads her arms out, so the coat falls open wider, with a shift in the weight that doesn't feel quite right. Tina is nibbling at Irene's thigh, then licking up up up, her tongue sliding forward and backward in long swipes that feel a tiny bit uncertain, like she can't decide just what she wants to taste. Irene drops her arms back down, patting at the coat, just as Tina pushes Irene's knees up to her chest and licks at her arsehole, sending a shiver through the whole of Irene's body that twists her mouth up at the corners.

The coat. For a second, it felt like—Irene slips her hand into the pocket.

"Huh," she says, and then grins, wide, as Tina licks into her arse, still rubbing at her cunt with one teasing very-much-not-impersonal hand.

"Hm?" Tina doesn't pull back enough to make it an actual question.

"It appears that I have someone else's mobile," Irene tells her, "fancy giving him a thrill?" and Tina turns, rubs her thumb in circles and her cheek against the curve of Irene's arse, and giggles.


End file.
